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This is a work of
fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Rachel stirred the
chowder one last time, raised the wooden ladle to her lips, and
gently blew on the thick broth before taking a sip. The savory taste
of fresh dill, mixed with the fresh sea flavors of shrimp, salmon,
cod, and scallops, exploded on her tongue, making her moan in
delight. “Perfect!” she declared to absolutely no one, lifting
the pot off the hot burner and setting it aside to cool.

Glancing at the time
on the vintage cat clock mounted to the wall just above her kitchen
nook, Rachel calculated that she had just enough time left to finish
the crepes before her guests arrived. She was cutting it close, but
this meal was about perfect execution, not advance preparation.

She heated the
skillet and gave the crepe batter one final whisk, then slowly poured
a ladle full into the piping-hot pan. She smiled, tilting her wrist
to spread the batter, and waited patiently for the crepe to cook to
perfection before expertly flipping it over.

She loved cooking,
always had, even as a child. It had been the one thing she and her
dad could do together without someone ending up screaming and
stomping away. It was usually her stomping away, but, occasionally,
her dad had made a dramatic exit, too.

They were so
different, she mused, yet so alike. Psychologically speaking, that
was the core of their issues. Their similarities were too forceful.

She slipped the
second crepe from the pan onto a plate and poured another ladle of
batter in, glancing again at the clock. She’d invited her best
friend Zoey and her boyfriend Bash over for supper, and it wasn’t
in either of their personalities to be late.

The doorbell rang at
that exact moment, making her laugh. She took a second to glance
around and ensure everything was in place, and then dashed across the
room to open the door. A bouquet of pretty yellow daisies greeted
her, followed by Bash’s handsome face and Zoey’s glowing one.

“Come in!” She
motioned for them to step inside and reached, automatically, for
their coats, feeling a little like her mother when they piled them in
her arms. Rachel carefully hung them in the coat closet then turned
back with a smile. “I hope you’re hungry. Supper is ready to go.”

“It smells
amazing.” Bash lifted his nose in the air like a hound and followed
it straight to the dining table where she’d laid the plates. His
eyes grew round with appreciation as he took in the plated meals and
Rachel couldn’t help but feel satisfaction. She’d never be like
her mom in most ways, but when it came to cooking, they agreed one
hundred percent.